


Work in Progress

by saliache



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Depression, Gen, Valinor AU, Worldbuilding, culture clash in the land of the gods, incorrect first impressions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: Celebrimbor returns to Valinor, his work in Middle-earth a shambles. Ingwion is not amused.





	Work in Progress

My name is Ingwion, and this is the tale of how I fell in love and how the line of the House of Fëanáro ceased to exist in the Blessed Realm.

Perhaps I should rephrase that. I am the son of Ingwë, and perforce my mother rules the Eldar, I have never known my father. Perhaps it is best that way. We have learned from the follies of the Tatyar, who call themselves Ñoldor.

Of course, the Exiles have returned, either from bloody defeat or from another, more insidious defeat altogether – _Morgoth’s shadow_ we name it, although some of the learned among the Tatyar call it by another name altogether; _entropy_. Their return has been mixed, with some on both sides unwilling to forgive or forget, and with the return of the last of the descendants of Finwë’s firstborn.

They hustled him off the ship, as if unwilling to keep him. That was the first time I saw him, hooded and shrouded, and hunched over as if from a great burden. Truth be told, I was glad. I had told myself that he deserved all that had come to him, that perhaps he even deserved greater punishment at the hands of the Valar for the deeds laid at the feet of his House.

Ai, I was wrong.

I saw his face for the first time at the Máhanaxar. Someone had drawn his veil back. He did not look like the unrepentant scion of fallen princes. He looked… tired.

Many came to lay crimes at his feet that day. He did not move. He did not protest. He did not speak in his own defense. He simply listened. And there were many, so many, who wanted vengeance. I suppose we all considered it a foregone conclusion that he would be found guilty, tried and punished.

He was exonerated.

I remember it, the judgment of Manwë. It struck me, surprised me to the core. And it started a near-riot.

There were even then those who would take guilt into their own hands, who were willing to emulate their worst villains, in the name of vengeance. I suppose the crowd would have been willing enough to tear him apart, if not for the intervention of the Valar.

To be fair, my own memories of the time are… nebulous, at best. Mother calls it a mercy, says the Valar are too great to comprehend unaided. As she is the closest to them, I am inclined to believe her. But when the crowd calmed, their target was nowhere to be found.

You must understand, he had followers, those Quendi who had lived and risen and fallen with him. They Eldar of Eregion, they call themselves yet. They of all people held no grudge against him who was their doom. And yet they were not present at his trial. A ploy, I found out later, by the Tatyarin Faithful.

The trials continued. Sauron was brought forth, weakened and spiteful, and even then it induced a quiet, appalled fear in the assembled Eldar. It was found guilty, and sentenced to serve the ones it had wronged so. I wish I could say that was the last I saw of it. The Valar are merciful, but sometimes I wonder that their mercy is wasted on those who do not appreciate it.

Mother would say that those are the ones who deserve our mercy the most, but I disagree.

The mood in Valimar was subdued when I returned; news travels fast, and we all remember the last time the Valar allowed one of the Fallen to roam free. Even the bells were quiet; I believe now that Manwë mourned his decision even as he made it, for He is just and in the beginning not even Sauron was evil.

Perhaps Sauron deserved another chance at redemption, but I still say it lost that chance when it chose not to return to Aman for sentencing at the end of the War of Wrath. It was fair, then, but its heart was as rotten as ever. And much grief that came to pass would not have, and much that is fair would also not have come to pass, and I judge that may yet have been the better path.

But I knew then only that great evil was loose in our land once more, and that the Valar had decreed it so, yet we had no hope. Thus, it was to my complete surprise that when I reached my abode my mother was there already, a familiar shrouded figure at her side.

* * *

I am ashamed to admit I did not react well. Not well at all. I still sometimes carry the spear I bore into battle; it is a symbol of times far grimmer than now, of the time the Minyar became Ruin. I had taken it to the Ring of Doom, judging its fierce reminder well-needed, but I only drew it now, to threaten a man I did not know.

I pointed it at him. I threatened him. I am not proud of that.

It was, as usual, my mother who mediated things. Or, in this case, simply pulled the spear from my hands and tossed it aside.

“Ingwion,” she scolded. “I did not raise you to be so rude to honored guests.”

“Mother!” I cried. “He is a kinslayer, and in league with the Dark Lord – he is no honored guest of mine!”

The kinslayer made a protesting noise. I ignored him.

“Ingwion!”

“Very well, Mother. If he must stay, let him stay, but he is no guest of mine.” I was adamant; I remember the pain Fëanáro’s rebellion brought upon us all.

“It is not necessary,” Celebrimbor spoke. “I can find shelter elsewhere. Lord Aulë’s forges, perhaps, or Lórien.”

“If you can make it there.” Mother’s voice was gentle, as gentle as when she had once had to coax the truth from half-terrified children during the Darkening. “But Lord Aulë resides in the heart of Tatyarin power, and Lord Irmo’s realm is too far for even you to travel unnoticed. I would avoid another kinslaying.”

“A very small kinslaying,” I muttered, and yet I wondered at his words. Many of the followers of Fëanáro no longer considered themselves beholden to the Valar.

Celebrimbor made another noise. It sounded almost panicked. Of course he would be; by all accounts his death was not easy, and neither would be any he could find at the hands of a vengeful mob. I did not care, though.

“Ingwion,” Mother said, still in that gentle tone. “Take care of him. You know I cannot; my household is ill-suited for the task. Please.”

I scowled, but relented. If Mother thought this important, then I would too. “Very well,” I said. “But if he gets in trouble, he’s on his own.”

“You will barely even know I’m here,” Celebrimbor vowed, and what a lie _that_ would be. I could see abject relief in his eyes, and felt a twinge of guilt. But still, he was a _kinslayer_.

“I will open up the western wing,” I said. “You can live there. I care not what you do, so long as you do not disturb the rest of the household.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The words came out scarce louder than a whisper.

“And _I_ will go make excuses to Indis’ brood,” Mother said, and left.

“You wouldn’t even be safe in the house of your own kin?” I asked once she had gone.

Celebrimbor laughed humorlessly. “They would be the first to throw me to the mob, if there weren’t enough of them to form one themselves. Grandfather did us no favors, seeking enmity with his half-brothers.”

And that was when I began to pity him.

* * *

He was, surprisingly, good at keeping his word. I gave orders to stock his rooms, of course, and it seemed that despite his faults, he was adept at managing his own quarters, and more. Little by little the building came into good repair; I woke up one morning to find that some time during the night he had plastered over the outer walls. I woke up another morning to the dazzle of newly relacquered roofing shining through the trees in the central courtyard. And it was not only the western wing; little annoyances that had accumulated over the millennia were fixed or gone. The well cover, which had stubbornly refused to raise itself after an unfortunate lightning strike, stood open. What use we would have of it since we took our water from the aqueduct like the rest of the city I did not know, but it was nice to see.

So I visited him.

His own quarters had been transformed, walls daubed over in traditional Tatyarin style and covered with old, familiar wall hangings. A small, mirror-backed lamp lit the room. He knelt at a small desk carved simply from the sweetpines that grew near the city, quietly inscribing something onto a piece of parchment; some mathematical formula, I could see, esoteric in the extreme. Even its graphs were nigh incomprehensible to me.

“My lord?”

I stepped over the threshold. “I see you have been making renovations to this place.”

A shadow crossed his face. Ink dribbled off the tip of his pen and splattered all over his notes, unnoticed. “Your steward – Ithilwen – and I corresponded. Was I not supposed to?”

“No. I… I just came to thank you, I suppose.” Why had I come? A letter would have sufficed, especially to a man who was not supposed to be living in my own house.

“I… I should be thanking you instead.” His head was lowered; he refused to raise it. “I only live because of your mercy, and this is all I can do to repay it.”

It was a strange way of looking at things. “I did not do it for you,” I said.

“But nonetheless, I am grateful.” He slid around, still on his knees, and dropped into a supplicant’s position. It was too much. I fled.

* * *

It would have been the end of my interaction with him, as awkwardly as that had gone, had I not walked into my parlor two weeks later to find Olórin sitting there, quietly sipping tea.

There was a Ring he wanted to return.

I had forgotten there was more to Celebrimbor’s legacy than the rise of Sauron. His death had eclipsed it all, but he had once created great works. Beautiful works. And now Narya lay in my hand, its red gem flashing fitfully. The Ring of Fire, they called it. Ironic, given Sauron’s nature.

People believed that the Three had lost power with the One; Narya belied that. I could feel its power, even as it lay quiescent in my hand. And I could read into a measure of its purpose, even as I knew it surely must measure my own worth.

They say that each masterwork mirrors its maker. The swan-ships of the Teleri, the Silmarils, even the Two Trees and Sauron’s Ring. There was no greed in Nenya, no desire for power.

It was the last thing I would expect a kinslayer to make.

And so I kept the Ring, locked away in a drawer in my room, as I debated this new information in my mind. It was strange, to think that a kinslayer might not be monstrous. They had done the most terrible of all acts, after all, and the house of Fëanáro most of all.

Once or twice I caught myself staring at it, wondering if its maker would know I wore it. I will not lie; I was tempted by its power, its promise. And even were it not a great artifact of power, it was still one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. A masterwork, made by a master smith.

Guilt gnawed at me, too. Narya was not mine to keep. I knew it, and the Ring knew it. Even the household knew something was happening, and slowly but surely Celebrimbor’s efforts ceased. I wondered if the Ring called out to him, if he also slept uneasily at night. Surely he must be drawn to it.

And so, I visited him again.

His quarters were dark, even though the sun had barely set. Lamps lit the rest of the estate, but trees screened the light from this place.

“Celebrimbor?”

No answer. I tried again.

“Celebrimbor. Curufinwë!”

There was a soft cry from the back room. It sounded pained. Had something happened? I ran in there, heart beating frantically in my chest.

If the front room were dark, the back room was pitch black. I stumbled over a low chest in my haste, closed my hand over a bedpost. There was a rustle of covers as its inhabitant dragged himself back, reached out and lit the lamp.

I stood there, feeling like a grand idiot, as Celebrimbor sat there, eyes wide in shock, clutching at his blankets for protection. Or perhaps modesty – I could see the clothes he had come in folded neatly in the corner, and Ithilwen’s old houserobe with them, but nothing else.

“I- I should come back later,” I blurted. “Now is probably not a good time.”

But Celebrimbor shook his head.

“If you desire,” he said, voice sleep-roughened. “But it is not late. I… I could not bring myself to rise today. It seemed like too much effort.”

Could not bring himself to rise?

“Are you ill?” I asked, worried. “Should I call the healer?”

He shook his head again. “If it is a sickness, it is not a sickness a healer can cure,” he said softly. “I am tired, is all.”

“Ithilwen told me it has been three days since you’ve so much as touched your food,” I scolded, feeling very much like a mother hen. “She worries about you, Elbereth only knows why. And it is beginning to look as if it has been as long since you’ve last stirred from your bed.”

“I am tired,” he said. “Perhaps we should finish this conversation tomorrow.”

I relented. There is something inherently shaming to force conversation upon a man whose rest you have just interrupted, and who you loom over like an angry deer, I left, but not before wringing out a promise from him that he would, at least, rise on the morrow.

My dreams that night were quiet. I wondered if that were Narya’s doing.

I was delayed by meetings that next day, as two lords in the city had come to near-blows over their seating in the upcoming festival. It was past noon before I had sorted them out; I suspect it was Mother’s influence that kept most callers from me. I understood why, but her lack of summons to court still hurt.

The western wing was, predictably, silent. The hallways were beginning to gather dust again, but I did not want to enter through the garden as I had last night. Reminding him of last night’s meeting would not be the best way to start this one. Nenya lay against my breast, warm and quiet, and utterly unforgettable.

He was asleep again, thankfully clothed this time, his eyes closed as if dead – or warding off bad memories.

“Celebrimbor,” I said softly, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up. It is past noon, and you made me a promise.”

He stirred fitfully, and I was surprised to see his face drawn in exhaustion as if he had not just spent days in bed. I shook harder.

“Celebrimbor. Awaken. You said you would, and now I am holding you to your word.”

“I did get up, earlier,” he said, mind still fuzzy with sleep. “But there was nothing to do, and… I fell asleep again, didn’t I?”

“I am calling the healer,” I said. Three days’ sleep and nigh-permanent exhaustion were not normal.

“My lord,” he said. “You should not trouble yourself on my account.”

Was that how he viewed things? How he viewed himself? I wondered what had happened to him to make him think of himself thus. There were beggars who thought of themselves more highly than he did.

“I am not troubling myself,” I said. “I saw a tray in the sitting room. You should eat.”

“My lord,” he said. “You should not trouble yourself on my account.”

I met his eyes, then, and I saw. He knew.

“You’re fading,” I said softly.

“Yes.”

It seemed so unfair. He had fought Moringotto, fought to create a realm of his own, fought Sauron. He had withstood his trials, found redemption in the eyes of the Valar. And now he faded? I told him so.

His lips quirked in a half-smile, and something eased in his eyes. “My lord,” he repeated. “Do not trouble yourself over this. In all likelihood, it will be over soon.”

I cannot say what came over me, just that I could not bear to see him give up so. Who were we, to deny him a second chance? A second chance that he might never see; the Reborn so rarely seek a third rebirth, and he had been in Sauron’s thrall for so long now. For him, an entire life’s time, nearly, since his death. I tried to think of the sheer scale of it and could not.

“No,” I said. “No. This surely cannot be what the Valar want. They pardoned you for a reason. I doubt it was so you could waste away hidden in a room not even your own. Fight it, Celebrimbor!”

“How?” he asked, amusement flickering over his face. “It is not as if there isn’t precedence-”

I grabbed him by the shoulders; he flinched away, but I held on. Tension flowered between us, and I could see fear growing again in his eyes. More of Sauron’s cruelty at work. “Listen to me, Celebrimbor. _You are not Míriel._ You are not bound to her fate.”

His laugh came out dry, humorless. “It would be appropriate.”

I gave up and stormed out in a foul mood, Narya protesting the entire way. It was unfair. I was not upset with Celebrimbor. Just the opposite; I had discovered empathy, and cruelty. My dreams were troubled, filled with the memory of the dungeons of Angband, and what we had found there. The prisoners all wore Celebrimbor’s face, and I laughed and reveled in their misery.

I hate being wrong. Especially when the truth is so unpalatable.

So, of course, being the idealistic fool that I so often can be, I went back the next day to apologize.

* * *

Crows had invaded my home. They were everywhere, perched on the trees, fertilizing the soil and anyone unfortunate enough to be standing underneath them, a large and raucous murder bent on disrupting my household.

Celebrimbor sat in his rooms with their leader, one whose presence sang to me as a Maia and who was currently engrossed in an attempt to roll over on its head.

“Greetings,” I offered, uncertain.

“Hello,” the crow-Maia said in a high, light voice. “Have you come to say goodbye?”

I winced. “The opposite, rather,” I said. “I came to apologize.”

“Apologize?” it trilled. “For what? Being a gracious host? I think little Tyelpë here likes you.”

“No longer quite so little,” Celebrimbor protested. “And please, Ingwion, sit. There is nothing between us. Birdie, Ingwion has been nothing if not a gracious and kind host.”

I thought of my ungracious and unkind deeds last night and kept quiet.

“You called her Birdie?” I asked.

Celebrimbor flushed. “I was three,” he mumbled. “And they never seemed to mind.”

I could only shake my head in wonder. “Clearly, creative naming is not one of the talents of the House of Fëanáro.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Definitely,” corrected Birdie. “We’ve missed you, you know, all of us, these past millennia.” And with that the Maia began preening.

“Even Mama?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t seen her.”

I knew perfectly well what had happened to his mother. It was best if Celebrimbor did not. I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

“No matter,” he said firmly. “I can guess.”

Well enough.

“What news from the Tatyar, Birdie?” I asked formally. Birdie stopped preening and fixed me with a beady eye.

“I bring news from Arafinwë,” they chirped. “He sends his apologies but cannot interfere in the matter at this time. Have you got any cake?”

“I think Élëlinya is making another. You should go check.” Celebrimbor shooed the bird-spirit off with one hand, fumbling for a scroll in the other, which he handed it to me.

I read it. Then I read it again.

“Is he serious?” I demanded. “You are his kin – he has no right to treat you like this!”

Celebrimbor sighed, and I remembered again the schism of Finwë’s children.

“Never mind,” I said, irked. “It is just that-”

“-even the Ñoldor hold little love for the House of Fëanor?” Stars above, but he seemed _amused_ at the thought of it. I swear, I did not understand it then and I do not understand it now.

“Well, yes,” I prevaricated.

He smiled. Oh, Eru, he _smiled_. It erased the worry-lines on his face, gave him a sort of vitality I hadn’t noticed he had lacked until now. Hope rose in my heart. Perhaps if I could keep him from fading…

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For understanding.”

My heart twisted. I did not understand. Not at all. I could not imagine a case where Mother, or Sister, or even my myriad cousins or nieces and nephews, who included both Arafinwë and Celebrimbor, would ever betray me. Instead, I put on what I hoped was an encouraging face. “I will be here, Celebrimbor, if you ever need me. Always.”

He smiled again. It was joyful to see, and I found myself smiling back. “Thank you again,” he repeated. “You have been kinder to me than I deserve.”

“Not kinder than you deserve,” I corrected, and Narya warmed approvingly against my heart as I saw his smile twitch in near laughter. “I would be honored to consider you my friend.”

Now only to convince the rest of Valinor of it.

* * *

Mother came to visit us the day I tried to return Narya.

“It is heavier than I expected,” she said, gazing into its fiery depths. “And… smaller.”

“It is one of the most beautiful things I have seen,” I said honestly.

“It is… adequate,” Celebrimbor said, and Mother and I shared glances. Narya’s maker had only earned suffering and fear for its sake. His mouth, expressive as ever, twisted into a disquiet frown. “And it should remain in the hands of the Vanyar. It is only fitting, now that Elrond wields Vilya for the Noldor and Galadriel for the Teleri.”

“A fine gift,” Mother acknowledged, holding Narya up to the light appreciatively. The Ring would have that effect on everybody, I suspected. In truth, it was an easy thing to admire. “But I cannot take it. Too many questions would be asked. Too many questions are already being asked.”

Celebrimbor took the ring from her, and offered it to me. “For you, then, Ingwion. The Ring suits you already.”

“Is this a proposal?” I asked wryly, reaching over to cup my hand around his.

He laughed. “Who would marry a scion of Fëanor? Just take the damn ring.” Mother gave him one of her inscrutable looks, and he sobered, but there was conviction in his eyes.

“It is a great gift,” I said, echoing his earlier words. “Greater than I deserve, and I will cherish it accordingly.”

And I slid Narya on.

Narya is alive. She lives in pulses of fire and light that sing through her matrix, echoing beyond even Ëa itself. She knows her maker, knows what was done in her name, and with her, and she remembers. She is a great and fearsome lady, crimson-red, rich with the eternal Song and stately in unyielding resolve.

I am unworthy to bear her.

* * *

When I woke up, it was dark. Starlight filtered through the windows; Tilion was away tonight. Everything seemed sharper, clearer, more alive somehow.

Celebrimbor sat beside me.

Narya was acutely aware of his presence. He had fallen asleep in his chair, head lolling back, eyes half-closed, lost in unhappy dreams. _Help him,_ she demanded. Distantly, far distantly, I could hear a similar clamor, two blue-green and silver-white presences that were Narya’s equals. And even further away, I caught at the edges of Elrond’s and Galadriel’s minds. They slept, undisturbed.

I reached out and grasped his shoulder. He woke with a start, crying out in fright, and nearly fell off his chair trying to flee my touch.

I let go as fast as I could.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?” he asked, he voice trembling. He took a breath, steadied himself. “You couldn’t have expected that.”

“Nonetheless, it was ill thought out, and I apologize,” I insisted.

“It is not your fault,” he argued. “Blame Sauron, if you must blame anyone at all. This entire sorry mess is _his_ doing.” And then he looked ashamed. “But it is not my place to tell you what you can and cannot think.”

“’Not my place’,” I murmured. I had been at the trial. What had Sauron’s words been again?

_It is not your place to question me._

If at that moment I hated something, it would be Sauron.

“Those are Sauron’s words, not yours,” I said. “It _is_ your place to tell me, Celebrimbor.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He was still shaken, caught up in old memories. Painful ones.

Any intervention would have to wait until morning, when he was calmer, and so against my better judgement I dismissed him. “Go to bed, Celebrimbor.”

He left.

* * *

I woke up the next morning the hammering of nails and a deep voice singing quietly about the love of an elf-maid for the stars. I hadn’t scheduled renovations for today, had I?

I dragged myself out of my warm, comfortable bed and slid open the windowscreen. It was bone-chillingly cold outside; the sun had yet to clear the horizon, and the soft predawn grey lit everything in a misty haze. I could smell the earthiness of the forest mingled with the sharp scents of the city, set in an undertone to the early-morning fog.

Celebrimbor hung from the roof, securely fastened into some kind of rope harness, singing softly to himself as he attached some kind of rainwater diversion system to the eaves. He was shirtless, and seemed completely unbothered by the cold. But then, he’d been working hard enough that I could see runnels of sweat streaking sun-starved skin. He was incredibly sallow, far too pale to be healthy. It was easier to see that out here than in the half-light of his rooms.

“Good morning,” I called, yawning. Even the birds were not up yet, much less my household staff. As if on cue, chirping came from one of the shade-trees edging the garden.

He paused in his work, and waved at me, a small grin edging itself onto his face. “I took your advice,” he said.

Advice? Ah.

Sauron.

What an ass of a Maia.

With a pull of something attached to his harness, Celebrimbor slid across the eaves to stop just beside my window. Physical exertion had brought out a healthy flush to his cheeks, and there was a light in his eyes I had grown accustomed to not seeing. He was very warm; I could smell the acrid tang of his sweat, see the way muscles bunched up easily under supple skin and not enough fat. I would have to ask Ithilwen to make sure he was eating.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice grave, but a smile tugged at his lips. They were exceedingly fine lips, set into a fine-boned face slimmer and softer than his infamous grandfather’s. Fine hairs curled about his head, or were plastered to his forehead with sweat; most of it was bound in a traditional Tatyarin braid. He was, I thought, exceedingly Tatyarin, fiery and more exotic yet than the Teleri, who were so unlike us. “For this second chance. I will not waste it.”

It was a statement, nothing more; likely there were no oaths he would willingly swear, not even the smallest ones. I couldn’t blame him.

Narya seemed to vibrate in anticipation, growing warm on my finger.

“I do not think you will,” I agreed.

And he returned to fiddling with my roof, I returned to bed, and all was well in my household.

* * *

The thing about good times is that they cannot last, not even in the Blessed Realm. It is what makes them good, and keeps them warm in our memories.

As my mother’s son I have obligations. Not all of them can I – nor would I – host in the privacy of my own home. Some of them require me to travel, sometimes for seasons at a time.

Celebrimbor, I was glad to see, had made much improvement of himself, determinedly fighting down his own demons and becoming a welcome member of my household. Outside, in the wide world, his infamy had also died down. There were even rumors that reports of his worst misdoings had been fabricated by the Enemy – although I rather suspected his golden-haired cousin were responsible. Galadriel is kind but ruthless.

When I left, he was busy composing a letter of gratitude toward my mother; formal letters such as his was meant to be must be written properly, in the old way. He had not yet quite mastered the use of the fine-haired calligraphy brush, and I entered to hear him cursing creatively at the ink splotching his rough drafts.

“Have you tried using a reverse grip?” I asked, setting the brush-pot upright again.

“You see before you the fine results of that endeavor,” he said dryly, reaching for the ink.

I waited for him to clear the table. He settled the calligraphy set back into its case before returning it to me; I shook my head.

“I need to make a trip,” I said.

“How long?”

“Until after Midsummer.” Or rather, the date we set as Midsummer. From what I have gathered, seasons here are much milder than those in Ennorë.

He was quiet. I was had nothing else to say, and the silence stretched uncomfortably between us.

“That is quite a long time,” he said finally.

I tried to shrug noncommittally. From the look on his face, I had not quite managed. “I am to go visit the rice farmers along the Northern terraces – that would be the Northern slopes, not the Northern sector. It is three weeks’ ride from the city to the closest village. Mother wishes to know that they are doing well.” Translation: if they are not doing well, go and fix that problem. Hence, Midsummer at the very least, if all went well.

His eyes darted to the ring on my finger; Nenya’s great gem flared brightly at the attention.

“Mother thought it was high time people started knowing,” I explained apologetically. “After all, Olwë’s kin hold one and Arafinwë’s kin hold another, and people were beginning to ask.”

“Narya will keep you safe,” he said, an unaccustomed roughness in his tone. Narya’s presence strengthened in my mind, and I wondered what else the Rings would do if their maker asked it of them.

“Be safe,” I echoed back at him, and he grimaced.

“Do not worry,” he said, and I wondered if he thought I were overbearing. But he continued, “it is good that you return to your normal life. I have intruded upon it enough as it is.” And, in a lighter tone, “you do not need my approval to go about your life. Shoo.”

And thus, suitably shooed, I set out along the mountain with a light heart and a small cabal of engineers and civil servants, all of whom looked forward to meeting old friends again.

* * *

 

The tour passed with little incident, and it was with a light heart that I finally returned to my home. Warm lamps gleamed in the gathering dusk, the outer gates were clean and shining, and the walls had been freshly painted. I was looking forward to the reunion with my household. Tuilindo in particular would be glad to know that I had procured some of the pale teas that grow near the snows.

The house was quiet; even the birds that habitated the gardens were asleep. I left the tea by Tuilindo’s door and snuck to the kitchen for a light snack.

The kitchen was bright-lit, and the babble of anxious voices ceased abruptly when I entered.

Something was wrong. I scanned the room, searching for the miscreant. No one would meet my eyes. It seemed everyone was accounted for, but…

“Where is Celebrimbor?”

The kitchen was silent, frozen as if from a tableau.

“What happened?”

Ithilwen raised her eyes; they were red and swollen. She opened her mouth to speak, but shook her head and closed it. As if on cue, most of my household filed silently away, leaving only my closest and dearest friends.

“It was a mistake,” Élëlinya whispered. “It was only a stupid, stupid mistake.”

Dread settled into my heart.

“A mistake,” I repeated numbly. “What kind of mistake?”

“The preventable kind,” Lintamacil confessed. “I… I was speaking with my brother, and I accidentally let slip… let slip where he was.”

“A mob came the next day,” Tuilindo said.

Ithilwen swallowed, tried again. “Not many, but enough.”

“And none would aid us,” Élëlinya finished tiredly. “So he went with them, willingly. Even though he knew what they would do to him. He… had grown tired again, soon after you left.”

Celebrimbor, gone. My oath of hospitality, broken; my mother’s request failed. I buried my face in my hands and sank to the floor.

“How long ago was this?” I asked, fighting back tears. I could still salvage this situation. I had to.

“A week ago.” Tuilindo cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but by now-”

“We do not know that!” I protested. “I will ask – people will listen to me – Mother can-”

“Ingwë was here yesterday.”

And yet not here today. That meant…

Élëlinya continued, mercilessly, “she determined that you had upheld your oath as best you could. That our chances of recovering him were negligible. I’m sorry, Ingwion.”

“I won’t give up,” I said fiercely. “I will find him, and I will bring him back.” I would have sworn it, too, by the Valar who guide us all, but he had begged me never to swear oaths where the House of Fëanáro was involved. _I will not drag you into the folly of my House_ , he had said.

And yet, I could not help but wonder if this was the work of the Doom of his House at hand.

“Ingwion, go to sleep.” It was Ithilwen again, gentle and persuasive. “There is nothing you can do until morning, and you will present a better case if you don’t look as if you’ve been rolling in every ditch between here and Tirion.”

She was wrong. I could still do something. Narya pulsed on my hand, now that she knew her maker was in trouble; I could only hope that her lack of previous knowledge was because he had chosen to shield it from her, and not due to any machinations of his captors.

My dreams that night were confused and uneasy. Narya and I strained to reach him, but he blocked us at every possible opportunity. Finally we were forced to relent, but the glimpses we had caught were disturbing.

He was blindfolded, we’d gathered that much, and bound. His captors must have let him drink, else he’d be much less lucid, but his body was in frightful condition. Nor did privation account for all his hurts; we’d felt the quiet ache of old bruises, mingled with the throbbing pain of newer injuries. There was little doubt as to who had inflicted them; there are few reasons to hold one of the Eldar under bondage, and most of them are not happy ones.

When I woke, it was with phantom aches in my limbs, as if they had been bound in one position for too long. There was a fuzziness in my mouth, as if I had been gagged, and pain elsewhere that made my anger burn when I understood. The sky was still dark outside, lit only by the stars and a thin sliver of moon. Tilion, too, had been burned recently.

Suitably chastened, Narya and I relented, and I fell into a dreamless sleep that refreshed my body, if not my mind.

* * *

I woke with a start, fumbling in the near-dark of predawn. The memories of the previous day washed over me, and with a soft groan I sat up. Surely this was close enough to morning that I could begin my preparations.

From the looks of it, much of the household hadn’t gotten much rest, either. Several chores that I hadn’t expected done until noon were finished, and others meant to prepare for the day were not. The corridors were silent and empty, however, as I made my way to the bathing rooms, a towel and clean robe under my arm.

The bathing rooms were equally empty; not a surprise, considering the coolness of the predawn air – not as biting now as it would be in the winter, but still unfavorable compared to the balminess of evening.

The bathing room was a small room built around a natural hot spring that bubbled with sulfurous warmth; cold water was piped in from the aqueduct to a trough nearby, and bathers could splash themselves with it if the temperature grew too hot for their liking. A series of stalls for people in a hurry lined the back wall; I headed there, filling a bucket with from the trough on my way.

As I refreshed myself, I considered my options. Blatantly announcing my intentions to the general populace seemed like a terrible idea. Attempting to find Celebrimbor by myself, however, seemed equally ill-advised. I could likely trust most of my household to keep their mouths shut and cooperate, but their activities alone would attract notice.

I needed allies.

Mother’s hands were tied. She had already shown that she dare not show any hint of overt favor, despite her own private opinions. It was probably the doing of the Tatyar; they above all others held much dislike for the House of Fëanáro, strange as it sounds. Their normally important bonds of kinship do not seem to apply there. It was likely I could not approach any of the non- Fëanorian Tatyar for aid, and most of the Tatyar I knew were of that ilk.

My mind returned to the Fëanorian Tatyar. But of course! Celebrimbor was, still, nominally a lord among that people; there were still those who allied themselves with his family’s House. He had even ruled a people, once, and they still indicated that they would be amenable to his return. What they thought of his disappearance I do not know, but I would be willing to bet that rumors of his reappearance and kidnapping were well on the way to Tirion. They would show up, sooner or later.

Now it was a matter of finding him; time was of the essence. I could not allow good Minyar and Tatyar to debase themselves so. We were not our orcish cousins, to turn on our own.

I could not let anyone stop me from searching; therefore, I had to make the pretense that I was not. Mother would be expecting me to make a formal report. I would go, and speak nothing of my friend’s kidnapping, and acknowledge nothing. For her sake, and the sake of peace in her court, as well as mine. It was with that thought in my mind that I returned to my room and dragged out the most nondescript of my formal robes.

The voluminous overcoat was of white samite, shot through with silver threads. It lay there, thick and heavy, especially with the burgeoning heat of day. Tiny mirrored chips invoking Varda’s stars gathered around the collar and near the hems. The underrobe was embroidered in white-on-white flames; the sash was a frothy Tatyarin chiffon, patterned in the old style – the Tatyarin style of Míriel Ϸerindë.

It was a wholly inappropriate costume, and I shoved it back into its wrappings in disgust.

Never before in my life had I felt less adequate in my capacity to act.

* * *

I arrived at Mother’s court at the turning of the bells, when Arien was still rising in the great dome of the sky. Her court was abuzz today, with courtiers I hadn’t expected in attendance. There was much whispering, and sly glances, and soft fingers pointing at me when their owners thought I wasn’t looking.

I could guess at their cause.

The throne of the Minyar is normally unused; it is Lord Manwë’s seat, and symbol of our deference to the grace of the Valar. Mother rules from its base, sitting or standing on the oversized steps there. The throne itself is a marvel; carved from a single piece of white alabaster in the likeness of gathered wind, thin enough to near see through in some places, foamy and infinitely delicate in others, too large for any of the Quendi to sit upon it comfortably, and strong enough to last the long Ages of the world. The tale goes that Mother and Aulë devised it together, combining the best of both Eldar and Ainur in a feat few have managed to match.

The throne stood before the open columns of Mother’s hall such that it would have been bathed in the light of the Trees before their destruction; the back end of the hall looked out over a sheer cliff before Yavanna’s gardens. It was also a spot for those who wished to prove their innocence. Three people had thrown themselves off that cliff in the past five yéni. Two of them were still with us.

Mother stood at her usual station, her face calm, but her dress whipped about in the winds generated by the throne’s occupant. Two others stood beside her; Aunt Indis, and a red-haired Tatyarin woman.

My heart plummeted. I wished I had news of Celebrimbor – any news at all, that I could give. I wondered what it must be like to stand there and watch as the man who was charged with the safety of your only grandson came to report his loss. To stand there and prepare to hear your son report failure of the worst sort. To stand there and know that your nephew caused great grief to two great women close to your heart.

“I… I’m sorry.” My throat closed in shame, and I let the words hang between us.

Mother’s face was implacable. No one upon the dais moved, still as statues, with only the fitful stirring of wind upon hair and clothes betraying their true nature. “You have discharged your duties,” Mother said finally. “None may fault you for that.”

Of course she would not fault me. It would have been an unpopular move, and Mother knows enough to keep peace – if not harmony – among her people.

It was time to play my own cards.

I straightened, adopting the most formal supplication. “Ingwë,” I cried. “Lord of us all! I beseech you!”

Consternated whispers swept through the hall. No doubt many thought I would have been glad to be rid of the Fëanorian. Once, perhaps – but I have always known duty. Undaunted, I continued. “I beg pardon of you, and seek your wisdom! I have been amiss in my duties, and it has laid a heavy burden upon my me! I beg leave of them until such time as I may perform them adequately!”

Silence.

Then, slowly, a soft ripple of noise, spreading and growing until the hall fair echoed with it. I kept my head down, and hoped I had not overplayed my hand. Duty defines us all, and I had just pronounced myself equal to none but the meanest criminals and vagabonds. No doubt scrambling for the positions I had just vacated had already begun. A part of me that wasn’t clamoring with fear or unruly hope wondered idly who might take what position.

No matter. I had phrased my request well. It would be an honorable leave of absence, not shameful resignation. Mother surely knew what I was playing at. I could only hope that Celebrimbor’s people could make up for my lack of official support.

Finally, Mother spoke, with awful finality. “By the wisdom that has been granted unto me,” she intoned as utter silence descended upon the hall once more, “I grant your request. Go from us, Ingwion my son, and return when you are fit to perform your duties once more.”

I did not even flinch at the rebuke in her voice. Relief wound through me as I made obeisance and turned to leave, and even the sunlight shining through the Hall seemed brighter.

No one tried to intercept me. Drastic moves such as the one I had just made are rare for the Quendi, and even rarer for the Minyar. We are supposed to be above such upsets; for all our long lives and celebration of glory, we are creatures of habit. I thought I could see glimpses of awe in some faces, envy in others, and calculation and amusement and a hundred other emotions mirrored in the faces around me.

A drastic move, I reminded myself, for drastic times. A man I had come to call friend needed my help. Personal honor demanded that I answer that call.

And besides, I was fond of him.

* * *

I barely made it back home before the first of my callers arrived. He was a minor lord, whose son had yet to make a name for himself.

“My lord, may I say, it has certainly been a most _enlightening_ morning,” the man blathered, bowing obsequiously. I considered the social implications of tossing him bodily out the door. This was not what I had expected!

“Indeed,” I offered lamely, only half-listening. “And know this; the Valar give us no burden we cannot bear.” I was tempted to laugh at that, thinking of Celebrimbor. “Have no fear. Your child will come into his own. Give him time.”

I watched as my guest bowed low and made his farewells. And Ithilwen escorted the next one, a dignified dame with an expression that could have rotted fruit, inside.

She wanted nothing less than my duties; I denied her, reminding her that such dues were the sole province of my mother, and she left, her countenance impassive. A test, then, from my new political enemies. I had not considered this one.

And Ithilwen escorted the next one in, and the next. I was beginning to despair as the light dimmed and her soft knock came again.

“You are welcome,” I intoned wearily. My bladder was near to bursting from all the tea I’d drunk throughout the day, but it would have been rude to not offer my guests refreshments, so I poured out another cup.

The door slid open to reveal a pair of dark-veiled figures. Silhouetted against the sun, they at first appeared as black shadows against the silk of the window-screens, but as my eyes adjusted I saw that they were robed in heavily embroidered veils of dark red. The motif of Fëanáro’s house repeated everywhere I could see.

Well, that was hardly subtle of them.

The one on the left drew off her hood, revealing the black hair and grey eyes of the Tatyar. She grinned at me, teeth very white against the richness of her skin.

“Hail, son of High King Ingwë!” she cried, bowing theatrically. The one to her right elbowed her sharply.

“We hear you’ve lost someone,” he said, disapproval heavy in his voice.

“And I was hoping you could help me here,” I admitted. “My resources in this matter are… sadly lacking.”

Nonexistent, as a matter of fact, since I could not even distance myself from the various sycophants and opportunists who now flocked to me.

The woman shrugged, and gave her companion a look I could not read. “Better than nothing, I suppose,” she said quietly. “I am Narwen and my companion is Fallë.”

“Greetings,” Fallë said politely, unveiling himself. I caught my breath at him, exotic and silvery-pale, whiter and pinker than even the Teleri – unwarmed by the light of the lost Trees. He had to be Sindar. I had heard that Eregion had sheltered some of his folk, but this was the first time I had proof.

“So do you come-”

“Unofficially? From the people of Eregion-that-once-was,” Narwen interrupted smoothly. “Officially? On our own.”

This day just wasn’t going to get much better, was it?

“I humbly welcome you to my abode,” I said formally, offering them tea. “Your presence here brings me great joy.”

“I would hope so,” Fallë grunted. “A pity the rest of your people don’t seem to share the sentiment.”

Narwen snorted. “Forgive him,” she said loftily. “He is _young_.”

Her response sparked a fierce debate between the two envoys, and I had the feeling that this was a matter that had come between them often. More to the point, they were making a point of it, telling me I was welcome to think of them as colleagues.

Either that, or they wanted me to lower my guard. I pretended to take a sip of tea and watched their bickering with fascination. Narwen was bright and articulated, her hands flashing about her as the crimson jewels set into her rings reflected the light like tiny flickering fires, emphasizing her words with abandon. But my gaze was drawn to her partner. I had seen the Sindar rarely, and even then only at a distance. They did not have much reason to visit Mother’s court, after all.

Fallë had pulled his hair into many small braids so they fell about him like silvery ropes. His skin was so pale blood dyed it a true pink where it was thinnest, at his lips and eyelids and the tip of his fiercely arched nose and the curves of his ears. He was too pink to be sallow. Two spots of color had risen on his pale cheeks as he argued fiercely. It made him look fevered, and the fierceness in his green-grey eyes did nothing to dispel that. He wore a close-cut jacket of brocaded cloth only a few shades darker than his hair; it did nothing to improve his color. Yet, despite his apparent pale sickliness, he seemed to be in perfect health.

What a strange-looking folk these Sindar were! I shook my head in amusement, and instantly the two of them stopped, fixing me with identical politely curious expressions.

“Just the two of you?” I offered into the ensuing silence.

“Might as well be,” Fallë said sourly. “But we’re just the decoy.”

Narwen nodded in agreement. “We come in, big and flashy and Fëanorian, and no one takes note of the increased Noldor presence inside their walls. It’s worked for us before.”

I was impressed, despite myself. These people clearly knew what they were doing. I wondered if having to rescue beleaguered kinsmen was a common pastime for the Tatyar.

“I see,” I said. “So what do you plan to do next?”

“Well,” Narwen grinned. “How do you feel about a little playacting?”

* * *

“I apologize for Fallë’s surliness,” Narwen said, her eyes bright. “He has rarely left the City – our city, not yours – and the general populace’s attitude on Fëanorians has upset him greatly. He remembers Lord Celebrimbor fondly, you see, and takes it as a personal affront.”

I held up my hand. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “He can think whatever he likes, so long as you two do not cause undue public interference. That, we will not – _can_ not – tolerate. Valimar is a peaceful city. Once is enough.”

Fallë’s face smoothed as he nodded jerkily. “I will remember that,” he said in a strangled voice.

I nodded with as much sagacity as I could muster. “Please do.”

The merchant who had been the cause of all this flushed angrily once he realized I wasn’t about to evict the two of them from the city, and opened his mouth. I shooed the two Fëanorians off as he began bellowing for the regulators.

Narwen had been right, however. Most people I could see were staring at my companions, or pretending not to, and I could see them beginning to gossip. I had a feeling that by the end of the week nearly everyone in the city would know that Fëanorians were afoot.

On our way home I nearly walked into a quiet Tatyarin woman dressed in sober Ñolofinwean blue; she pressed a piece of paper into my palm as she made her apologies and left.

I slid the paper into my sleeve and made small talk to an apple vendor. Prices were good these past few years; a young cabal, all twelfth generation or newer, had proclaimed them the best offerings to Yavanna, and the idea had quickly caught on.

I must admit, She _is_ quite fond of apples.

Narwen purchased some as, she proclaimed, an offering. “We honor our dues, here, in this land,” she explained to the bemused vendor.

“There is a small park not too far away where you can plant the seeds,” the vendor said, pointing the way. “There are many apple-trees there already.”

“My thanks,” Narwen said, and took a bite.

The day was growing late as I led them toward the park; the streets were clearing, people streaming towards their homes or to await the advent of the stars.

Valimar was built in the foothills of the mightiest mountains in Aman, and in some places the land was deemed inadequate to build on, whether the slope was too steep or because the foundation-rock was faulty or a hundred other reasons. This park had grown in one of those niches, untouched by the buildings and roads and people around it. Even the bells strung about the city seemed to avoid the trees there, which loomed above us tall and dark and cool.

“My thanks for the fruits of your soils, and for the trees that give us shade and the flowers that bring us joy, Green Lady,” Narwen murmured as she deposited her uneaten apple core near the stump of a fallen oak. “Your domain is of growth from air and sun and rain, and the generations that alternate, and the life that thinks not like us. I give faith unto you that you may preserve this great web that sustains us. We honor your role against the great decay.” Both she and Fallë touched their hands to their foreheads and their hearts, and bowed their heads in silence.

The invocation was not a Minyar one; there was something of nolwë about it, and of the understanding that comes from long hours of observation. I thought again of Celebrimbor and the knowledge jealously hoarded by Tatyarin loremasters, and shuddered. The world they see is not the world we see, I reminded myself. Still, it was the strangest prayer I had ever heard.

And it grew late, and the first stars came out, and in response to the song rising from the city they made another of their strange invocations, this time to a fiery and distant Varda.

I think I like the Varda the Minyar sing of better.

* * *

In the cultural shock of Tatyarin customs – customs Celebrimbor must have put aside to avoid perturbing us – I almost forgot the message I had been given. As we gathered in the kitchen, Élëlinya bustling about with a teapot and tray, I slipped it out and read it.

_He is not here._

Swallowing bitter disappointment, I showed them the message. They were quiet. Three days, and we still had nothing.

“Use Narya,” Fallë said finally.

“I have tried. He blocks my sight, and I cannot find him.”

The two agents exchanged glances. “You can,” Narwen said mildly. “You have only not yet mastered your Ring.”

“Mastered my Ring?” I asked blankly. Hadn’t I successfully done that when Narya hadn’t deigned to burn my hand to a crisp when I put her on for the first time?

Fallë nodded, focusing on his tea. His partner glanced at him and sighed. “Since you aren’t a smoking pile of ash right now, the most probable series of events-”

“Celebrimbor lets you use Narya, but the Ring obeys him as her wielder.”

I drew the Ring out. She glimmered there, on the end of her chain. I was almost afraid to put her on again. She had been unforgiving before; what would she do if Celebrimbor rescinded his permission?

“Well?” Naryen murmured; her eyes were focused on the Ring’s slow swaying, and her voice had a hungry tone to it.

“Does Celebrimbor maintain mastery of the other Rings?” I had to ask.

Naryen shrugged. “We have no idea,” she said honestly. “None of us have interacted with them – or their bearers – in over an Age.”

“But you still have the knowledge, and the power, to make them,” I murmured, comprehension dawning. I glanced at her hands. Did perhaps some of her rings glow with fervent intensity? Fallë was easier to guess; he wore but a single band, silver twined with mithril and set with a soft black stone. “Not great Rings, like the Three, but lesser ones. Ones with the power to encourage the mind to think a certain way.”

“Two out of three isn’t bad,” a new voice said, and the Tatyarin spy stepped into the light of my kitchen.

To my household’s credit, they reacted swiftly and decisively. But carving-knives and brandished lanterns are an ill match for Tatyarin swords and magical artifacts, and we all knew it. I was under no delusions that Celebrimbor would allow Narya to hurt his own people.

“Peace,” the spy said dryly. “I have no wish to start another kinslaying.”

Someone snorted in disbelief, and was hushed. I lowered my cleaver.

“What part did I get wrong?” I asked, trying to cut through the tension.

Fallë fiddled with his ring. “The part where our Rings influence others’ minds. The lesser Rings – all but the Three and the One – were made to enhance their wearers’ innate attributes. They amplify traits we wish to embody, and mitigate those we do not.”

“Quantified talent,” Ithilwen noted. “How useful.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Narwen protested.

Tuilindo interrupted her, his great brows drawing together. “I do not understand,” he said. “The forging of the Rings was the secret of the Mírëtanor-”

“Valar preserve us,” I said, shocked. It had been obvious from the start. Fallë’s presence despite his appearance as a Sinda, the eight-point star of Fëanáro’s house and the symbol of the Mírëtanor alike – and who else would you trust on a secret mission to rescue your beleagured lord in foreign lands? “You are of the Otornassë Mírëtanor, all of you.”

“Well, yes,” the spy said.

“Valar preserve us,” Élëlinya echoed. “I thought your kind never left that city of yours!”

“Desperate times,” Narwen mused. “Although I suspect now we must wait for Ingwion – Lord Ingwion – to master his Ring.”

“How?” Narya’s depths were as inscrutable to me as ever.

The jewel-smiths looked uncomfortable once again; haltingly, the explained that each Ring was the sole providence of its maker, and that in any case Narya was very different from theirs, and could they please take notes for future reference?

And so, it was with great trepidation and a trio of fascinated, scribbling onlookers that I sat down and slid Narya onto my finger.

Nothing.

Fallë looked disappointed; Ithilwen eyed the jewelry about her suspiciously; Narwen looked at me and continued writing.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and sank into Narya’s red depths.

A hundred shades of burning crimson enveloped me, and I drowned in it. A part of me that was still anchored to my hröa realized that the Ring grew hot on my finger; the rest of me struggled to comprehend the vast intelligence about me.

Narya gathered me to herself, and kept me safe.

It was not what I wanted.

I fought against it, against the waves of peace and comfort, against the apathy growing in my own mind. If I were lost here, would my spirit become trapped in here, perhaps for an eternity? Or would yielding grant me understanding? Did it even matter? My own doubts caught at me, tangled in the threads of my thoughts.

I swept that aside and focused. There had been a dreamscape, of sorts, earlier. I had been able to feel the other Rings. I struggled to orient myself and find it, to no avail. Narya dragged at my thoughts, and made it difficult to concentrate.

Narwen had spoken of mastery – yet I knew Narya was too great for me to force compliance. And so I gave myself to her, demanding only one thing in return; partnership.

I awoke, shuddering and gasping and doing my best to imitate a dying fish on Élëlinya’s favorite trestle table, secure in the knowledge that Narya protected me.

And that I had the mastery of her, if mastery it could be called.

“Did anything happen?” Narwen asked, surprised. “That was… quick.”

I nodded wearily, my own mental and physical exertions catching up to me, and cast my mind out again.


End file.
